


The Wrong End of the Stick

by ElizabethOShea



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:45:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethOShea/pseuds/ElizabethOShea





	The Wrong End of the Stick

  


_For MsMoat on the occasion of her (ultimately rather disappointing) black eye_  


They were squabbling as they came into the pub; the day’s adrenaline still kicking around in their systems.

“Listen,” Doyle was saying. “If I’m well enough to be in at eight tomorrow for the bloody debrief, I’m well enough to stay on for a couple of drinks tonight.”

“ _One_ drink. Then home. For God’s sake, Ray, I’m knackered and you very nearly –”

“Yeah, but I didn’t. I’ve had a very trying day and I want a drink. So leave it, all right? Look. Couple over by the stuffed fish are putting their coats on. You grab the table, I’ll get the drinks in.”

Bodie muttered something exasperated under his breath, but nevertheless started pushing his way obediently through the swell of early evening punters.

“I’ll have a Scotch,” he called after Doyle who was using his elbows and the intimidating blankness of his stare to negotiate the scrum around the bar. “A double.”

Doyle lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

“And, oi!” Bodie added, loudly enough that Doyle’s wasn’t the only head to turn. “You can get me some crisps and all. Salt and vinegar. And some peanuts.”

 _Not that knackered then._ Doyle started to grin, felt the stitches tug at his split lip and thought better of it. The local was beginning to wear off. He hated getting hit in the face.

The barmaid, a motherly type with the wardrobe of a woman half her age, was eyeing him with caution. Reminded that he was still sporting the dark glasses he’d slipped on when they left A&E, Doyle pushed them up onto the top of his head, sighing inwardly at the woman’s sharp intake of breath.

“Ouch,” she said. “You’ve been in the wars.”

“Looks as bad as it feels, does it?” He explored his swollen cheek gingerly.

“Well… But I should see the other fella, right?”

Doyle really didn’t want to get into that. “Nah. Walked into a door, didn’t I?”

“Right.” She’d clearly heard that one before. “Course you did. Anyway, what’ll it be?”

“Gin and tonic,” Doyle said, glad to leave it at that. “ _Large_ gin and tonic, and a double whisky, please.”

“Ice and lemon?”

A glance back at Bodie scowling down at the table on the far side of the room.

“Please. And, um, do you have any of those little cherries on sticks...?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. For the whisky.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “My mate over there, he thinks they give a drink a touch of class. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Well, all right, dear, if you say so. One glacé cherry. That’ll be two pounds seventy, please.”

“Thanks. There you go. Ta, love.”

He pocketed his change, scooped up the drinks and made his way back to the corner where Bodie was sitting. He was aware of more than one quickly averted glance as he passed. The bruising was obviously starting to come out. Never mind, could be worse. His nose wasn’t broken and at least he could still see out of the eye.

“Here, get that down you.” He sat and slid Bodie’s drink over. “Hope I got it right.”

“You utter bastard,” Bodie said with the resignation of the chronically put-upon. “You’re causing a bit of a stir,” he added, as he fished ice cubes and lemon slices one by one from his glass and deposited them with pointed deliberation in Doyle’s. (The cherry, after a warning glare from Doyle, ended up in the ashtray.) “Maybe you should stick the shades back on.”

Doyle shrugged, sampled his drink and winced at the sting of the alcohol. “Bit late now.”

Bodie – who, by right of claiming their table, had appropriated the seat with its back to the wall – scanned the pub behind them. He leaned back in his chair, taking a contemplative sip of his whisky.

“I get the feeling there’s some serious speculation going on about you,” he said. “How many d’you reckon think your boyfriend’s been beating you up?”

Doyle looked at Bodie, trying to see him as others might. All in black today, stubble beginning to shadow his jaw. Hard, seen-it-all eyes, insolent set to his mouth. Yeah, he looked the type right enough.

“Speculation about us, you mean,” Doyle said. “Well,” He pointed out, “If my boyfriend’s beating me up, you know who’s in the frame, don’t you?”

He regretted the words the instant they left his lips. A dangerous light was dawning in Bodie’s eyes.

“Ah, Bodie, no. Whatever you’re planning, no,” Doyle pleaded, “It’s a nice place, this. I wouldn’t mind drinking here again.”

“Eh!” Bodie said, and Doyle dared for a moment to hope he’d been diverted from whatever insane scheme he was hatching. “Where are my crisps?”

Doyle went to slap his forehead, remembered just in time and aborted the gesture. “Sorry,” he said. “Completely forgot. Never mind, we can pick up a take-away on the way back into –”

He was cut off in mid sentence as Bodie surged to his feet and loomed over the table, hands splayed on the surface between them, displaying his bruised knuckles to full advantage.

“I _said_ ,” he spat, “Where are my sodding crisps?”

Even without looking, Doyle was aware of conversations faltering behind them as all attention was drawn to their corner of the pub.

“ _Bodie_ ,” he growled, fixing Bodie with his own most intimidating stare. “Pack it in.”

He twisted in his seat to offer a helpless, placatory smile to the pub in general.

That, of course, was just fuel to the fire.

“Don’t you turn your back on me!” Bodie roared, the glee in his eyes unfortunately visible only to Doyle, “Crisps. Peanuts. How hard can it be?”

“Bodie, I’m warning you...” Doyle kept his own voice low, still hoping he could head the mad bastard off before they were thrown out on the street with their reputations in tatters. He could feel the pub’s clientele holding its collective breath behind them.

“Enough!” Bodie snarled. “Save the excuses; I’ve heard them all before. You get off on winding me up, don’t you? Well, you should know by now that’s not a very clever thing to do.” His voice dropped, turning soft and deadly. “Take a look in a mirror, if your memory needs a jog.”

Doyle could swear he caught a swiftly cut off gasp behind him, and someone murmured quite distinctly, “See? What did I say?”

Doyle was beyond pride now. “Bodie, _please_.”

“I’m going for a slash, then I’m taking you home.” Bodie bent closer, eyes dancing. “And you’d better be very, very nice to me when we get there. Lucky for you you’re such a good –”

“So help me, Bodie,” Doyle hissed between gritted teeth, his eyes locked furiously with Bodie’s. “If you finish that sentence...”

“... Cook,” Bodie finished smoothly, his shoulders rigid with the effort not to laugh, “I’m prepared to give you another chance. Be ready to leave when I get back.”

Playing to the gallery for all he was worth, he shoved the table aside and swaggered off towards the gents.

A scandalised hush spread in his wake.

 _Oh, God_. With a groan, Doyle let his head fall forward into his hands. He was cravenly grateful that his back was still to the room.

 _Just you wait, Bodie_ , he promised fervently. _Trust me, you are going to rue this day..._

He was so engrossed in mortified dreams of vengeance that he wasn’t aware of anyone approaching from behind until he felt a hesitant touch on his shoulder.

He whipped round, checking his hand’s reflexive sortie towards his holster just in time as he recognised the young woman standing by his chair. She was one of a group from a few tables away; students by the looks of them. He’d noticed the pretty dark one on the end when they’d come in. This girl was a little older, with a plain, pleasant face and nice legs. She looked nervous but determined.

“Sorry,” she said, “I should have thought –”

“Don’t worry, love.” He hoped his smile looked reassuring. “I’m just a little on edge this evening. What can I do for you?”

“Um. I, er, just wanted to give you this.” She held out what looked like a business card, and hurried back into speech. “I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help overhearing and, well, I just wanted you to know there’s help out there. If you want it.”

Doyle looked at the card. ‘University of Sussex, Domestic Violence Helpline. Free, confidential, 24/7’.

_Oh, great._

“Listen,” he said, mentally cursing Bodie to hell and back, “It’s very kind of you, love. Really. But I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. This isn’t how it looks. He’s a maniac, yeah, but... It’s not like that. Honestly.”

He could tell she didn’t believe him. He wasn’t surprised. He’d heard the same thing often enough himself in his days on the Force. _He doesn’t mean it; it’s just the drink talking. He’s got a temper on him, but I know he really loves me…_

And Bodie had been very convincing.

“Well. That’s... good,” she said. “But if you do ever... It’s a freephone number; doesn’t even show on your phone bill. There’s always one of us there. Even if you just want to talk. And it’s not only for students. Or women. A lot of people don’t believe it can happen to blokes too, but it does. And round here... Well, you know.”

“Yeah, and thanks. It was very brave of you to do this. I appreciate it.”

She blushed. “It’s important. They shouldn’t get away with it.”

 _Something personal there?_ he wondered. None of his business.

“Anyway,” she said, glancing over to the door of the pub, where her little group were waiting with their eyes on the entrance to the gents, presumably expecting Bodie to reappear any minute, ready for mayhem. “I’d better go. Take care, yeah?”

“You too.” He smiled. She was so young, so idealistic. “And thanks again.”

The rest of his drink went down without even touching the sides as Doyle returned to planning Bodie’s painful demise.

“Who was that?” Bodie said, coming up behind him.

Doyle didn’t even twitch this time. Bodie could never sneak up on him unawares.

“Good Samaritan,” Doyle said, pushing back his chair. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“But I haven’t finished my drink!”

“Tough.”

Doyle took a none-too-gentle hold of Bodie’s arm and propelled him towards the door. He found it suspiciously easy to avoid eye contact with anyone on the way out, noting wryly how many people just happened suddenly to be looking the other way as they passed.

“You’re really pissed off, aren’t you?” Bodie said, taking a couple of hurried steps to draw level with him as Doyle strode off towards the car.

“You don’t say.”

“I was only having a bit of a laugh,” Bodie said.

“What? Humiliating the pair of us in front of a room full of people?”

“Oh, come on. They loved it. Spiced up their dull little lives. They’ll be dining out on it for days.”

“Terrific. Glad I could be of service.”

“What did that girl want? The good Samaritan?”

“She wanted to rescue me from you. Gave me this.” He slapped the helpline card into Bodie’s palm. “Any reason why I shouldn’t use it?”

Bodie rolled his eyes.

“She was brave,” Doyle snapped. “She didn’t know me from Adam, she believed that Neanderthal act of yours, and she still tried to help. That took guts.”

Bodie prized courage above most virtues, but if Doyle had hoped to shame him into contrition he was in for a disappointment.

Bodie grinned. “That convincing, was I?”

“Domestic violence isn’t funny, Bodie.”

“No, Ray.”

“I mean it. And so would you if you’d seen what I’ve seen. Some of those women...”

“Okay. Okay. Point taken.”

“What the hell possessed you?”

Bodie shrugged. “Like I said. Bit of a laugh. All that respectable disapproval. Anyway, I don’t see why you’re so bothered. It’s me they’ve got pegged as the violent psychopath. You’re just the innocent victim.”

“Right,” Doyle muttered, “Poor, cringing little fairy.”

Bodie snorted.

“Oh, that’s funny, too, is it?”

“The idea of you as a poor cringing little anything? Yes, that’s funny.”

“Yeah, well,” Doyle said, only slightly mollified.

“Oh, come on, Ray.” Bodie nudged his arm. “You’re not going to sulk about this all night, are you? What do I have to do to make you love me again, eh?”

“Right at this moment? Something pretty spectacular.”

“I did save your life earlier,” Bodie pointed out.

Doyle waved that away. “You’re always doing that. Not good enough. Try again.”

Bodie opened his mouth to protest, and Doyle was ambushed by a vivid recollection. The two of them on the steps of a building in Fleet Street, and Bodie messing around with a dead girl’s head band. He’d been as baffled by Doyle’s anger then as he was now. Hadn’t a clue why Doyle had failed to find his antics amusing.

And that had followed another day like today: long, wearying hours of limbo while Bodie was forced to batten down his emotions and get the job done, not knowing if Doyle was alive or dead.

Brooding introspection, or bursts of manic energy and questionable humour: near misses took the two of them very differently.

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” Doyle said with the certainty of inspiration.

Bodie blinked. “Got that the wrong way round, haven’t you?” He turned his back on Doyle, reaching into his pocket for the car keys.

“Not about that.” Doyle turned him with a hand on his shoulder, needing to see his face. “About letting Keeble get the drop on me.”

If Doyle hadn’t been paying attention he might have missed the fractional hesitation before Bodie replied.

“Don’t be daft,” was all he said, but his body language spoke volumes.

_Right. Okay, then._

“Thought so.” Doyle smiled at him for the first time since leaving the pub. His smile widened at Bodie’s obvious incomprehension.

“That’s a good thing, is it?”

“In this case, yes. _‘Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner’_ , isn't that what they say?”

Bodie shook his head, clearly struggling to catch up. “No idea, mate; I don't speak Welsh. But if it works for you.”

“Fortunately for you, it does.” Doyle slapped Bodie’s shoulder and released him. He headed round to the passenger side of the car. “Come on, get this door open. I want to go home.”

“You still fancy that take-away?” Bodie ventured as he fired the ignition.

Doyle smiled down at his hands as he fastened his seat belt. He didn’t feel like taking any more chances today. “Yeah, all right.” He shifted to look at Bodie. “You’re paying, mind. I’m still not sure I’ve completely forgiven you yet.”

“Fair enough. My treat.”

They drove in silence for a while, apart from Bodie’s predictable grumbling as they crawled through the rush hour traffic heading back onto the London road.

The atmosphere in the car had thawed considerably by the time they hit the motorway.

“Course we’ll have to cross Brighton off our retirement list.” Doyle said, as the traffic started to clear and they were able to pick up some speed.

“Didn’t want to retire to Brighton anyway.”

“What’s wrong with Brighton? Sea, sand – well, pebbles. The pier, the pavilion...”

“And poofs. Place is full of ’em.”

“Um, Bodie, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but...”

“Yeah, but we’re not like that. Not all frilly and limp-wristed like...” Bodie’s hand sifted the air, searching for a suitably damning comparison. “Like... _hairdressers_.”

“You don’t have to be a poof to be a hairdresser,” Doyle said. Then his eyes met Bodie’s in a flash of their familiar telepathy and together they chorused, “But it helps!”

“You’re coming round, aren’t you?” Bodie said when they’d finished cracking up. He sounded ever so slightly smug.

Doyle let out a breath that was more than half a laugh. “Heaven help me, but yes. You’re an aggravating bastard and I don’t know why I put up with you, but you do seem to have convinced me. Oh, sod it.” He reached over and gave Bodie’s thigh a squeeze. “You’re forgiven. Now take me home and find me some ice for this eye.”

Bodie beamed, and floored the accelerator.

END


End file.
